


even you, so tendersparked

by SamMasterson



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Ambulon is dead and everything is bad, EDIT: we now have better tags than the ones i posted while over-caffeinated at 6am, First Aid is just trying really hard not to feel another Emotion ever again, Gen, Getaway is a bastard with Emotions, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Themes, Manipulation, Ratchet is an emotionally absent dad but he is also Trying His Best, Riptide for Best Guy Ever, Rodi is here and trying his best, Velocity is a literal ray of sunshine and breath of fresh air, also the WhirlAid is super subtle? vague? hm, and it doesn't contradict CyWhirlGate, dark themes, discussion of major depressive episode, drinking/Cybertronian alcohol, medical stuff bc Aid works in the medbay, needles in a much later chapter, occasional POV shift for the duration of certain chapters but it's mostly First Aid's POV, so that's why i haven't put The Official Ship Tag up top, tags subject to additions, there will be warnings posted at the beginnings of super heavy chapters, this is still hurt/comfort! i've promised y'all comfort and i will deliver, uhhh Megatron is not presented in a very forgiving light in this fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-24
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-10-15 14:04:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 8,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17530097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamMasterson/pseuds/SamMasterson
Summary: What if, instead of setting his sights on a Tailgate who was so desperately eager to please, Getaway had turned his manipulations on a severely depressed First Aid? After all, he's right there.





	1. Empty

It wasn’t the same as it had been when Pipes had died.

It had still hurt, then, of course. First Aid had spent quite a bit of time with Pipes after he’d joined him on the Lost Light’s crew, and even though they hadn’t always been together every day, there was still a noticeable hole left in First Aid’s friend group and routines. Of course, because Rewind was gone, too – and that had hurt, as well – there were no more movie nights to spend together. But aside from that, it was the little day-to-day things that came back to remind him that Pipes was gone: watching a silly Earth video with Swerve and thinking how he’d like to share it with Pipes, only to remember; finishing a loaned datapad and thinking to return it to Pipes, only to remember; going over patient charts and thinking that he still needed to check and make sure Pipes’s rust infection hadn’t come back, only to remember. And every time First Aid remembered, it had hurt – an odd, hollow ache somewhere in his chest. But it hadn’t hurt all the time.

This hurt always. This hurt every second of every hour of every day until it stopped hurting and was simply numb and heavy and ragged, like someone had torn his spark out and replaced it with a cold nugget of dross. It was constant and it was something that never, ever left First Aid’s mind.

Ambulon was dead.

In a way, it truly was like a piece of First Aid was gone. The warm and gentle presence at his shoulder, the idle brush of hands in a quiet moment, the silent language of glances and head tilts and tiny smiles and shoulder angles that came from years of working and living together, the late night conversations, the security, the love… it was all gone. There had been no-one else in First Aid’s life like Ambulon, and now he simply wasn’t there anymore.

He hadn’t cried about it yet. First Aid had cried about Pharma, had sat down and sobbed the moment he realised what he himself had done; but he hadn’t cried about Ambulon in a way that was just for Ambulon, that was only about sadness and loss instead of guilt and shame. He’d known as soon as he’d killed Pharma that the other mech was dead, and felt it; Ambulon had been gone thirty minutes before Ratchet felt it necessary to tell First Aid that he was dead, and by then there was too much happening for him to let himself really process it.

Now there was nothing, finally, at all. The days were as empty as the medbay. And yet it had been so long that he couldn’t seem to bring himself to touch the grief. It was like a crooked weld that he had let himself grow used to, a constant ache the source of which he did his best to ignore. He could reopen it, look it over thoroughly, clear out the rust and set it straight, but that would hurt so much more than it did already. It seemed the time for dealing with things properly had passed him by.

He shoved it aside and did his best to simply be numb.

But he was withdrawn, and he knew it; even worse, he didn’t seem to want to do anything about it. The thought of talking to Rung or Ratchet, or even trying to go to Swerve’s and forget for a while, seemed exhausting when he realised that any of these choices required some level of interaction. He drowned himself in the monotony of work, and when he wasn’t working, all he wanted was to sleep. Sleeping was easy, and he was lucky enough that he had no dreams; he didn’t bank on it lasting, but he’d take what he could get for the time being.

So he worked and he slept and he scraped up enough energy to keep a passable bedside manner. The rest of the crew carried on without him, and that suited First Aid just fine.


	2. Ghosts

“And so you can imagine why I’m feeling so torn; on one hand, with the things I’ve heard about this quest, I could be dead right now. But on the other… I missed so much, y’know? Makes a mech feel left out, even if I might be alive because of it.”

Riptide had pulled his shoulder cabling during a wrestling match in _Swerve’s_. Ratchet had rather conveniently announced his lunch-break just as Riptide had walked in. Now First Aid was nodding along to a rambling, one-sided conversation while making repairs and wishing that Whirl, the other guilty party, would do something helpful and field Riptide’s less rhetorical questions instead of alternating between looking gleefully at the repairs process or pressing the hood of his helm to the tiny window of Tailgate’s recovery room.

Finally, First Aid was able to finish and replace Riptide’s scapular plating, giving it a careful pat as it sealed neatly back into place with a gentle hiss of vacuum and a quiet click. “There you go. It’ll be sore for a few days; exercise it gently to prevent stiffness and keep the swelling down. Cold packs will help with that, too; and feel free to pick up a pain chip if it bothers you too much.” He stood back, folding his arms in a way he hoped came off as appraising instead of dismissive. It wasn’t one of his more manageable days, and he really wanted them both to leave.

“Hey, thanks a million.” Riptide experimentally rolled his shoulder – probably too enthusiastically, but there was nothing to be done about that – and gave First Aid a beaming smile. “It feels great.”

“I’m glad.” And First Aid was, he really, really was; but it was for Riptide, and not for himself.

“I’d like to pay you back somehow.” Riptide’s grin was replaced by a small, thoughtful frown. “Do some work around here, maybe. Is there anything you need?”

First Aid had every intention of saying _no, thank you, this was his job and he was happy to do it, and besides things were so quiet that the medbay was hardly understaffed_ – and that word hurt, it really did, every time – but Whirl spoke first.

“No, idiot.” Whirl’s clawtips clacked merrily together, belying his blunt words. “The doc doesn’t want manual labour from you,” he turned to First Aid, “do you, Digits? Ditch the Hatchet and come back to _Swerve’s_ with us instead. I don’t see you around the ship anymore.”

First Aid sighed, soft and insistent and involuntary, like a cough. “I…” His arms tightened across his chestplate. “It’s pretty busy around here. Some days.” A lie, and Whirl’s optic went sharp and bright at having caught it immediately.

Riptide had not. “See! They _do_ need help around here!” He looked very sincerely to First Aid. “I can help out. I’m useless with paperwork, but I love sorting and cleaning.” The smile was back, tentative and hopeful. “That’s good, right?”

First Aid froze. Riptide was new, and First Aid had only seen him a couple of times as he drifted in and out of the medbay; but how had he never noticed those optics that were the wrong shape but the exact same shade of gold, or the sharp teeth peeking out from a smile that was endearing because of its hesitance? He couldn’t, _couldn’t_ be around that every day, couldn’t have that working here, in the medbay.

“It’s… you know, that’s a lot to ask of you.” What was meant to be a reassuring laugh came out simply as shakiness; First Aid cleared his voice and tried again. “Rodimus probably has other duties he’s given you, right?” Riptide seemed to wilt a bit at that. Well… maybe one evening with ghosts would be a fair exchange to waive the threat of haunted shifts, every day. First Aid relented. “Look… we’re busy, but I suppose we’re not _too_ busy. I have tonight off. Why don’t I take you both up on that invitation to _Swerve’s_?”

“Sounds good,” Whirl agreed instantly, as if he were defying First Aid to somehow try and find a way to take it back. Riptide had already brightened considerably, and was nodding with enthusiasm.

“I’ll meet you both at nineteen hundred hours, then. Provided you haven’t been banned from _Swerve’s_ for being rowdy.” The joke felt hollow, though. First Aid was already dreading the gazes and attempted conversations of other crewmembers.

It was just once. And only because it had been a genuine offer instead of just another obvious ploy to “get him out and around other people” – and also because he couldn’t bear the possibility of Riptide working in the medbay when he had optics like _that_. First Aid would fill his socialization quota for the next month – next _six_ months, even – and then no-one would be allowed to say he “didn’t get out anymore” ever again. No doubt Riptide and Whirl were doing him more of a favour than they realised.


	3. Bass Line (baseline)

The music in Swerve’s was set to something loud and heavy on the bass, and the booming pulse of it soothed the ragged ache in First Aid’s chest. He huddled into the curve of their booth, clutching a glass of _something_ in his hands like it was a lifeline and doing his best to keep his gaze fixed on the bright glow of it. Whirl had ordered it for him; it smelled strong and acidic, and he was far too nervous about what it would do to his emotional barriers and gastric linings to drink any of it.

As for Whirl, he was currently all up in First Aid’s personal bubble, curving over him to gossip and snark with Riptide; the both of them were content to let First Aid sit back while they entertained each other. Between the pounding music and Whirl’s noisy, leaning bulk and Riptide’s pleasant chatter, First Aid felt shielded and sequestered from the rest of the bar. It was downright bearable, and he was beginning to be glad he’d come along.

(He almost hadn’t, though, after being seized with a sudden fit of exhausted, anxious jitters just as his shift had wrapped up. In fact, he’d been about to comm Whirl and explain that he wasn’t coming when the medbay door had burst open – well, swooshed dramatically open, at least – to allow his company for the evening to enter. Apparently, waiting at the bar was for losers. Riptide, already a little tipsy, had giggled something about a kidnapping while Whirl all but herded First Aid out the door and down the hall. By now well acquainted with simply going where others persuaded him, and sandwiched safely between the two taller mechs, it had been much easier for First Aid to make the walk down to _Swerve’s_ and into the bar than it ever would have been if he’d tried to go alone, he was sure.)

Now, nearly an hour later, he was comfortable enough with the situation to feel a habitual sleepiness settle over him; his frame had grown accustomed to preparing for recharge whenever he wasn’t working. He gripped his glass just enough to make sure he wouldn’t doze off, but otherwise let himself relax. The music was loud, his companions were animated, and he didn’t have to think if he didn’t want to. It was nice enough to possibly even be worth taking a second outing, sometime in the very distant future.

“Oi! Told you they’d be back again so soon!”

The loud voice, practically at the table with him, made First Aid startle back into alert wakefulness. A vaguely familiar mech, optics grinning above his facemask, plunked himself down next to Riptide; First Aid settled back again and watched with detached interest as an accompanying Atomizer attempted to sit next to Whirl, only to chicken out and move around to squeeze in beside the mystery mech instead as Whirl cackled raucously. First Aid just pressed himself closer to Whirl as everyone scooted around to make more room on what was left of the booth.

“Want in my lap, doc?” First Aid looked up to see Whirl peering down at him, optic curved to match the smugness in his voice.

“I think… maybe. If we keep running out of room,” First Aid mumbled, not too sleepy that he wasn’t still a bit embarrassed by the suggestion. Whirl snorted and tapped the glass in First Aid’s hands, and he resignedly took a sip, small enough so that the ethanol only tingled all the way down instead of burning.

“Hey! Heh-hey…” First Aid looked back up to see the unknown quantity leaning over the table and considering him as if he were some sort of intricate puzzle. “ _Primus on toast_. And here I didn’t think you were really real.”

“Uh… excuse me?”

“I’ve been looking for you!” The mech propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin on the back of his hands. “I said, ‘Hey, who are the medics on this ship, because I’ve only seen one and he’s not the guy I’m looking for,’ and they go, ‘well, there _were_ two more, but one is dead and the other won’t come out of his office’—ow!”

Atomizer, who had been looking bored and resigned up until this point, pulled his elbow out of his companion’s side and fixed First Aid with an irritated grimace. “Sorry, First Aid. Getaway’s trying to say he’s been looking to _thank_ the other, _nice_ medic – the one who isn’t Ratchet – for helping him out during the Killswitch mess.”

The mech named Getaway nodded. “Because I remember you! If Atomizer hadn’t told me there was definitely another one of you left, I’d still be wondering if maybe I’d just hallucinated you being there. You’re hard to find.”

First Aid had the faint impression that Riptide was staring at him sympathetically, and he suddenly recalled why it was he’d been hiding in his office since the _Lost Light_ had left Luna One. Pitying glances, prying conversation, people bringing up the exact things he was trying to bury…

“I’ve been busy,” he managed at last, taking a sizable sip of his drink this time. Getaway, right. He’d been the unfamiliar mech with the white, white paint; First Aid had been stabilising his back and hips, helping Ratchet support his frame so he wouldn’t hurt himself more while he convulsed from spark failure. He latched onto the image to drown out the other memories that were trying to resurface.  “I remember you, too. ‘M glad you all made it.”

“Aren’t we all,” Getaway laughed, and chucked a gently frowning Riptide under the chin with the knuckles of his fist. “ _Bomp_. Right?”

“Sorry about Ambulon,” Atomizer added with much more sincerity, leaning in across the table to keep the conversation somewhat between the two of them.

“…Thanks – thank you,” First Aid replied, and he meant it. He focused on the sharp, clean lines of Getaway’s plating and took another sip.

The conversation went around to more mundane things after that, but remained a bit lopsided. First Aid sipped away at his drink until about a third of it was gone, before setting the glass on the table and curling up against Whirl. Riptide had been scooching subtly along the booth in their direction, and First Aid was now comfortably wedged between them, the safe feeling from earlier settling back in around him. So maybe he _wouldn’t_ do this again, but at least it was all right while it lasted. He let his visor flicker off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here he is. here he is. the Horrid Trash Cat Man. finally.
> 
> i've been updating every four days, so far. i might switch it to every Friday, though. thoughts?


	4. Haze

He’d been dozing for a while when a shift in tone caused him to tune back into the conversation. He kept his visor off.

“…listen, listen, all I’m asking is how you _feel_ about it.”

“About the same as everyone else, I suppose. I try to stay out of politics these days, y’know.” Whirl’s voice was a cheerful rumble where First Aid’s helm was tucked beneath his cockpit, but it held the sharp edge that had roused him. “You want something done about it, ask the captain.”

“He _is_ the captain.” More cheerfulness from Getaway, this time covering frustration.

“My ass, he is. Ask the real captain.”

“No-one’s seen Rodimus for weeks. Nah, two months now. He’s as scarce as this one.” First Aid had the uncomfortable feeling that he was being pointed at. “Which, by the way, nice work. Maybe make Rodimus your next conquest.”

“Conquest?” came Riptide’s voice, soft and confused, and inadvertently soothed First Aid’s sluggish ire before his plating had the chance to begin rising indignantly of its own accord.

“ _Social_ conquest.”

“I think,” Whirl said, very deliberately and very pleasantly, “you’ve got the wrong idea.”

“Okay, okay, I only meant I’m glad he’s out and around. You know how it is, grief – very uncomfortable thing. _Unfortunate_ thing.” Glasses shuffled over the surface of the table. “Look, I’m just trying to get a solid grasp on how the crew as a whole feels about Megatron.”

“And how far they’re willing to go to make their feelings known,” Atomizer added.

“Right. Maybe, if we work together, we can do something about it.”

“Like what? Write a petition? Start a frikkin’ – thingy – _union_?”

“Maybe. It’s a start.”

There was another rumble against First Aid’s audial – something about a raw potato and Optimus Prime’s exhaust port – before Whirl sighed and leaned over First Aid. “C’mon, Riptide; Digits s’gone and had too much fun and now we gotta get him home.” There was prodding at his tyres and chest; he finally onlined his visor and sat up blearily. “Wake up, lightweight. Can’t leave you drooling in a booth or you’ll never take another invitation again.”

“Never,” First Aid agreed, haphazardly working his way out of the booth after Whirl.

“Where’s your hab, by the way?” Riptide asked.

First Aid tapped impatiently at his staticky visor in order to clear it. “I’ve got an office in the medbay. Take me there, please?”

The walk back was subdued, but hardly grim; and at any rate, it seemed a very short amount of time before First Aid found himself staring stupidly at the closed medbay doors. He looked up at Whirl, then Riptide. Something was supposed to happen, now…

Right. “Thanks for asking me out. I had a nice time.” And it was true.

He left them in the hall, managing to make it all the way into his office before collapsing into his chair. He pulled his blanket out from where he’d shoved it under his desk and wrapped up, setting his alarm for the morning shift. In the grand scheme of things, he’d made it through another day, and that was something. He’d even stopped feeling entirely numb – if only a little bit and only for a while – and that was something, too.

The overheard conversation had been completely forgotten. He had no trouble falling right back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we now update every Friday
> 
> also, this is the last chapter that i have pre-written, so feel free to come kick my ass into gear. i may get snowed in this weekend, so that should help the writing process :3


	5. some Befores and Afters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> huge shout out to LovelyLadyCon for all the reviews and encouragement, and to my friendo KJ for being my cheerleader and inspiration buddy

First Aid woke up with a mild hangover and the ghosts of yesterday’s events flitting around in his head.

He shifted in his chair. He’d slept wrong – again. Letting the change in position work out the worst of the aches while he pulled together enough willpower to get up, First Aid began planning how he would get through the day.

As of last night, there were no scheduled appointments, which meant mainly solitude and busywork, but also the threat of getting lost in his own head. He briefly considered letting his hangover stand like a fuzzy wall between himself and his thoughts. One of his spinal struts chose that moment to twinge in time with the ache in his processor; so he abandoned that idea fairly quickly and popped in a pain chip. Might as well keep his misery to a minimum.

As his head cleared, the memories of yesterday sharpened. Most of it was safe; most of it had been nice. When it had just been himself and Whirl and Riptide at the booth, the conversation had been a veritable fount of information, part of which had been that the Decepticons’ enormous wartime forums had apparently been hacked and were now generally accessible to anyone who cared to pry. Now there was suddenly crossover between this and the Autobot portions of the datanet, and mechs were communicating anonymously across both factions. It had sounded interesting – and like a possible consuming pastime.

Aside from that and closer to home was the recent change in the _Lost Light_ ’s leadership, and the fact that First Aid hadn’t really given much thought to either the presence of Megatron or the absence of Rodimus. He didn’t know if he wanted to pursue that. Captain Rodimus was from Before; Captain Megatron could therefor only be considered as part of After. Since it didn’t seem to be physically hurting anyone as far as First Aid could tell, and since there was nothing he could do about it, it was probably best to just go on as if nothing had changed.

There was also the problem of Getaway. First Aid hoped the new mech was satisfied with expressing his gratitude during last night’s interaction and would leave First Aid alone. Saving Getaway was all wrapped up in the events of Luna One, and the less First Aid had to be reminded of it, the better.

And then there were Riptide’s optics. Primus, but he really did somehow look like—

But that wasn’t Riptide’s fault. First Aid couldn’t treat him like the ghost of a dead mech that Riptide hadn’t even known. His fingers reached up to tap over his chestplate as he mulled over last night’s outing. Both Whirl and Riptide had seemed to know what First Aid was avoiding while managing to not be obvious about it. They’d been nice. First Aid had always enjoyed Whirl’s company, in an odd way, and he found he liked Riptide, too. And it had been so much easier to keep distracted when there were other people to help him.

He made a little face under his mask as he remembered all the times Ratchet had told him to “just go spend some time with living people”. The difference, he thought firmly, was that last night hadn’t been mandated therapy, or a pity invite. Riptide had been genuine, and Whirl didn’t do _pity_.

Hm.

He finally managed to drag himself out of his makeshift berth and into the main medibay. Even after the pain chip, there was still sort of a dull, heavy ache that permeated his frame and had nothing to do with highgrade or poor sleeping habits. It made everything slow and painful for as long as it lingered, and First Aid found that launching himself into work would sometimes banish it sooner.

All the medberths were empty. Ratchet was behind the main desk, reading a datapad, and glanced up when First Aid pointedly picked up the general patient logs from the shift before.

“Good morning to you, too. Did you take something for your headache after that wild night last night?” Ratchet set down his datapad, and First Aid managed a glare, which went to waste when Ratchet didn’t quite make eye contact with him. He tapped the clipboard in First Aid’s hands instead. “Tailgate’s about the same; nothing new, and no concerns. Just lots of sleep. Change the energon drip at oh nine hundred and thirteen hundred.”

Redundant information. First Aid tried not to fidget as he waited for Ratchet to finish talking and leave. He knew he’d failed when he heard Ratchet sigh.

“Did you eat yet?”

Here they were again. “Not yet,” First Aid said. It was a rehearsed line, concise and ambiguous.

“Make sure you do on your break, then.” Ratchet’s reply, also well-worn, was a familiar ultimatum, and the response that seemed to cause the least conflict and end the conversation the earliest.

Except.

Ratchet cleared his throat. “I… worry about you, you know.” A break in the script, and First Aid flicked his gaze up to Ratchet’s optics in suspicion. “I do,” Ratchet insisted. “I’m _your_ Chief Medical Officer, too, and I’m also… I’m _responsible_ for you.”

There was a part of First Aid that wanted to relent; to take the not-nearly-an-apology and accept it for what Ratchet wanted it to be. But it was the other half of him that won out.

“You’ve been responsible for a lot of things.” He moved the clip board out from under Ratchet’s fingertips and turned away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i busted this out at 3am this morning, so if you see funky grammar or doubled words (like "the the", a common mistake r.i.p.), that would be why. feel free to smack me with a newspaper
> 
> again, thank you to LovelyLadyCon. they noticed the reasoning for why First Aid didn't want Riptide in the medbay wasn't all that clear, so i provided more explanation this chapter. always feel free to tell me if something is weird or unclear, i have an odd way of writing and clarity is more important than style, so i'm willing to take advice


	6. Exchanges

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [checks calendar] it's still Friday where i am
> 
> i'm sorry this is a little late. but! still got it out there

It was turning out to be a different sort of “one of those days”.

First Aid scrubbed down all the berths, even though only number four had been used during Ratchet’s shift (Siren, sprained knee joint; given a pain chip and a warning). Then he reorganised the already organised surgical implements, took inventory (Ratchet had forgotten to log the used pain chip), counted the linens, rotated the medgrade and supplements, and checked the medbay’s isolated circuit breaker. That ate up an hour and a half. Then he drifted about for another thirty minutes until it was time to change out Tailgate’s energon drip. The ache from earlier that morning had not subsided, and there was no indication that the medbay would get livelier any time soon. First Aid couldn’t believe he’d been so ready to chase Whirl and Riptide out yesterday; a little guilty piece of him hoped they’d arm-wrestle each other again, to merit another trip to the medbay.

Time crawled. Eventually, he caved and poured himself a cube of medgrade, more to have something to occupy his hands with than anything else. The ache settled in his lower back, and the boredom turned to fatigue. Soon he was wrapped up in his duvet, settled into the chair at the main desk with his cube and a datapad.

First, he revisited the old Wrecker forums he had once spent most of his free time on. Things had quieted down there even before Ironfist had died, and there weren’t many threads or articles with dates past a couple of months after the last _Wreckers: Declassified_ upload. Some of it was still new to First Aid, as he hadn’t been very active on the forums since the last few years at Delphi. He spent a bit of time perusing them and catching up, scrolling through an interesting thread revisiting the events on Pova in light of the Garrus 9 mission, but he found his spark wasn’t really in it.

He kept far away from the fiction and roleplaying sections.

After a while – and more than a couple of glances at the silent door – he followed a series of linked posts to the section of the datanet where the Autobot and Decepticon portions now met. It was vast and growing quickly, with dozens of threads that had been updated only moments beforehand. His gaze flicked from topic to topic, his spark doing an odd sort of hiccup when he caught sight of a few usernames that he recognised from the Wrecker forums. He briefly switched apps to set a reminder on his datapad for thirteen hundred hours, just in case he lost track of time, and then went back to browsing.

He picked a random thread: OK NOW WHAT?? “Good question,” he mumbled, starting from the top and reading chronologically backwards through the little chunks of reply chains.

The top conversation was presumably an argument between factions, with GoesSoHigh dismissing the entire thread’s relevancy to any Autobots, since “we won, so what do we care? WE go back to normal, YOU can figure out what to do with yourselve”. texmixnado, along with a few others, angrily replied that something had to be done so that at the Autobots at least made a space for Decepticons to integrate into society (generally expressed somewhat less eloquently, and with poor glyph management), while Shadowstalker0w0 insisted that the idea of trying to go back to the way it was before the War would do nothing but reinstate a Functionalist government, leaving everyone back at square one.

First Aid scrolled through the entire argument, considering the various viewpoints and finding himself unwilling to take sides, even in the privacy of his own head. He was on the _Lost Light_ , anyway; these things didn’t affect him. Yes, old prejudices still held, but no-one acted on them anymore. It was safe here, even for blatant Decepticons; as far as First Aid knew, Megatron hadn’t had much trouble yet, and he was as Decepticon as they came, regardless of his recent badge change. So it was fine. All the little worries he’d had about what would happen to Ambulon after the War ended had been completely—

First Aid’s optics abruptly unfocused behind his visor. Oh… he’d forgotten.

And now he remembered.

He sat there, staring at nothing, keeping very still and trying not to vent. Maybe it was because even that small movement would hurt. Maybe he felt like something would find him if he breathed too loud or moved too much. Maybe he was suddenly working very hard to not think at all, and accidentally forgot to do anything else.

The alarm for Tailgate’s second drip change was like a glass breaking in the terrible silence of the medbay, and it sent First Aid’s spark leaping the rest of the way up into his throat. He swallowed, over and over, and tapped the screen with shaking digits until the alarm finally went quiet. He got up, extremities still vaguely numb from the melting ice feeling that had poured over him when he had _remembered_ , and set the datapad facedown on the desk.

He wasn’t ever going to… well. He thought of how the hours had flown by up until this point, and relented. He’d be pickier, anyway, next time he chose a topic. The small internal struggle had lasted no longer than a nanosecond in his dazed processor.

His movements were automatic as he tended to Tailgate. Unhook the empty bag of medgrade, inspect the lines, clear any tiny bubbles, replace with a full bag. Check the tubing for wear or breakdown around the needle’s insertion point, closely monitor the vitals for a full minute. Log everything.

He pushed away from the recovery room’s terminal and looked back over at Tailgate. He was still sleeping, with the odd depth and not-quite-glow to his visor that all sleeping mechs shared. First Aid gently folded his hand over Tailgate’s where it lay on the berth, and let his helm rest against the berth’s railing. Tailgate was going to make it because of Luna One. It wasn’t a trade-off and it wasn’t a compromise; it was simply a good thing among so many bad things.

First Aid let out the breath he was holding and stood up to go back to the main room.


	7. Getaway, Act One, Scene One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter music: The Funeral - Band of Horses

Ever since Megatron had joined the Lost Light’s crew, Getaway had been looking for two things: an opportunity to be acted upon, and a scapegoat who would _act_.

Because it wasn’t fair, was it? Getaway had just found this wonderful, safe place, that existed solely as a three-fingers-up to the War and both factions in general; a place that was far away from Prowl and the Diplomatic Corps, where people didn’t require anything of him in order to belong; a place where he could just exist and make friends and have the fulfilling life he once thought he’d never get.

And then everyone had gone and ruined it by letting Megatron on board – as _captain_ , no less.

Now Getaway didn’t feel comfortable in the one refuge he had found in the course of his short, frenetic lifetime. He didn’t feel safe in the hallways, he couldn’t relax in his hab or the gathering areas. Even when the crew had dropped everything to divert the literal end of the universe, he hadn’t felt like he was being asked to die; he had been _volunteering_ to help, then. He'd _chosen_ to fight alongside friends to prevent something that would have killed them all if left unchecked, and that was vastly different from being told to fight in petty squabbles stemming from other people’s pissing matches. Now every little backwater detour on their quest felt like falling frozen from the sky all over again, because he shouldn’t _have_ to go, and the mech sending him never had the decency to at least fight at his side.

They had all been equals on the ship until now. He didn’t want to be reduced to cannon fodder again, sent ahead while the big shots hung back and waited for a good moment to make the finishing blow. He didn’t want to become _nothing_ again, and he was so, so afraid that his happiness and personhood – if not his very life – would be some of the first things sacrificed if Megatron was left unchecked to escape justice.

So, Getaway made a plan. Several, in fact, so that he could adjust things as the situation demanded. Implemented successfully, every single one of them would end either in Megatron’s death or removal from the Lost Light. The problem was, none of them guaranteed Getaway’s survival, and that was imperative.

Hence the need for a scapegoat. At first, he had considered Rodimus – isolated, uprooted, reportedly struggling with some recent decisions and events – but had soon discarded that train of thought after the ‘co-captain’ had proven to be _too_ isolated; he wouldn’t come out of his hab, and Getaway didn’t know him well enough to plausibly go knocking on his door. He’d chatted up Swerve, who had turned out to be less of an easy mark than Getaway had assumed; Swerve had his bar, after all, and was enjoying fixing up Ten and spending time with his multitude of patrons. Chromedome simply refused to speak to anyone, which was a pity, because Getaway really could have put those needles to use. Mirage had somehow managed to guess Getaway’s intentions, and had clearly enjoyed turning the conversation around in polite and gleefully ignorant circles until Getaway had left in equally polite frustration.

In Atomizer, he’d found a sympathetic ear and a shared sentiment; that wasn’t exactly something you risked throwing to the wolves. Not to mention, Atomizer was clever in a careful, measured sort of way that Getaway found extremely gratifying. So he had instead taken Atomizer in as a confidant and fellow conspirator, which had thus far proved to be far more than beneficial, even if it had still left him short of his original goal.

They’d both been leaning hard towards setting up a ship-wide mutiny – had actually discussed it that very evening – when who should walk into the bar but Whirl, Riptide, and the small ghost medic. It was perfect.

Riptide was useful simply because Getaway had concluded that he was stupid, and that made him easy to direct. It simply took a few carefully worded questions to assure Riptide’s name was filed away with those of other mechs that Getaway had deemed malleable enough for his purposes, but he wouldn’t do for any sort of thing that Getaway had in mind for his grand Plan A.

The medic – First Aid – was more of the same, but this was instead because he seemed willing enough to go wherever the winds pushed him as long as he could keep moping about. At the very least, he wouldn’t be a threat to their mutiny when the moment came, and it would be nice to have a reliable medic around when the dust settled. Getaway did not trust Ratchet to be reasonable either during or after such a shift in power.

Whirl, though. Whirl would do nicely, and Getaway was a bit put out with himself for not realising it sooner. Of course, during their conversation, Getaway had assessed that he probably wouldn’t be suitable for a fellow conspirator, but Whirl was angry enough and careless enough that Getaway knew he would be the perfect scapegoat. If Getaway could say the right things, it would be just as if he had aimed Whirl at Megatron and fired. Getaway could be the trigger, and Whirl would be the bullet. Megatron – being Megatron still under that false ‘reformed Autobot’ façade – would respond to any provocation with violence. One of them would kill the other, and if Megaton was the one left standing, the crew would throw him off the ship for murdering one of their own. It worked no matter how you summed it.

Now Getaway just needed an opportunity, and that would come with time. He was patient. He could afford to wait for the perfect opening.

If everything went according to plan, Megatron would be gone, and Getaway would still be alive and thriving. He honestly couldn’t think of anything better than that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trash cat is hard to write from an internal POV, but i feel like... he just wants certain things. so badly. things that honestly he kinda deserves. except he thinks the ways he chooses to get them are right as long as does as little collateral damage as possible. it's justified then, he's sure.


	8. Developments

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for being patient, here is a huge (for this fic) chapter as my thanks

Slowly but surely, a pattern began to set in over the next few months. First Aid would wake up, take the morning shift and the early afternoon shift, spend the evening carefully perusing the post-war forums until he couldn’t keep his optics online anymore, and then fall sleep in his office to do it all over again the next day. He and Ratchet had long ago made an unspoken agreement to pretend that First Aid slept in his office as a way to unofficially staff the medbay during the graveyard shift, since the two of them were trying to keep at least one professionally trained medic in the medbay at all times. Hoist remained on-call in case of emergencies.

Whirl was the one exception to the routine. He had begun to hang around the medbay more often, though still in his usual chaotic fashion – pestering the patients, peering over First Aid’s shoulder, and trying to sneak into Tailgate’s recovery room. It was nice when Whirl was there, though; First Aid found himself able to chat with Whirl without it feeling like a chore, and he was happy to act as a distraction for anyone else present.

Oftentimes, when First Aid’s shift finished up, Whirl would leave without asking him out as he had done that first evening, but First Aid found that it made the few times when Whirl did ask him much more agreeable. He took Whirl up on almost every invitation, happy to take a break from the datanet to spend an evening tucked in a corner, curled up under Whirl’s elbow. It helped that Whirl made sure every time to get First Aid back to the medbay safely and early enough that he could get decent sleep before the morning shift.

It helped even more that Getaway seemed to be avoiding First Aid now that he’d “expressed his gratitude”. First Aid didn’t think he could deal with Getaway’s persistent, inquisitive attitude so soon after last time. Perhaps that was unfair to Getaway; in the end, First Aid settled for feeling a little bit guilty about how relieved he was, and left any other analysis for later. What counted as “later” was up for debate.

At the moment, First Aid was digging suspicious-looking shards out of Brainstorm’s hands and listening to Whirl and Perceptor gleefully snipe at each other about some fumbled Wreckers’ mission.

“You stepped _into_ my rifle’s targeting scope, Whirl, and _that’s_ why—”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk, after all these years, you still can’t admit you’re not a hundred percent perfect—”

“I have no doubts that you still have the shrapnel in your backside to prove the truth of my version of events,” Perceptor sniffed, carefully testing the patches on his side where First Aid had meticulously tweezered the remaining portion of Brainstorm’s experiment out of the thinner waist plating. Apparently the compound “had not reacted according to previously established parameters”, which First Aid and Perceptor both agreed was an honest mistake. “It was a miracle I managed to salvage the shot.”

“Well, that’s what those silencers I gave ya were for.” Whirl blinked his optic, although with the way his helm was tilted, First Aid was certain it was meant to be a wink. “Turned out fine, anyway, didn’t it?”

“I suppose, barring the fact that you had to have repairs afterwards, like always.” Perceptor looked over at Brainstorm. “How is it going?”

Brainstorm was frowning as if considering a particularly abstract equation. “I just don’t like that my hands are numb.”

“I promise that you’d be liking it a lot less if I’d left your pain receptors on,” First Aid reassured him. “Sorry it’s weird. I’m almost done, if that helps.”

Brainstorm made a vague hum of assent, and First Aid concentrated on fishing out the last few splinters from the knuckle of Brainstorm’s right thumb before slotting a pain chip into his wrist port and turning his pain receptors back on.

“It’ll ache for a few days, and then start itching as it heals. If you have itchiness or pain lasting for more than a week, let me know; that usually indicates the start of a rust infection.” First Aid rubbed a bit of clear ointment into the joints of Brainstorm’s hands. “That’s to keep contaminants out, since I can’t wrap your digits in any way that will last.” He handed a tin of the ointment to Perceptor. “If you could make sure to help him reapply this every eight hours or so, I would appreciate it. And both of you take a break from lab work.”

“And no more covering pending explosions with your servos,” Perceptor chided, helping Brainstorm down from the medberth. “I swear, it’s like working with Rodimus sometimes.”

Brainstorm laughed weakly. “Yeah, but how else was I going to save your pretty face?”

“Turn a waste bin upside down over the offending item. You’ll notice I suffered injuries anyway. And while you’re making a list of things to refrain from in the future, please,” Perceptor feigned being scandalised, “never use a ‘Whirlism’ again; it doesn’t suit you.”

“Yeah, those are just for me!” Whirl called as the door swished shut behind them. After a moment, he turned to First Aid. “Your shift done?”

“Just about. Let me scrub down the medberth.”

“Dull. Boring. Pre-dic-ta- _bul_ ,” Whirl griped, pulling out a clean rag from the cupboard where they were kept and tossing it at First Aid. “Hurry up, you got places to go.”

First Aid didn’t reply, but the cavernous ache in his chest softened somewhat.

It took just a minute to spritz the metal surface of the berth down with disinfectant and give it a few cursory swipes with the rag. First Aid sent a wordless ping to Ratchet, who replied with a brief glyph of “don’t-worry-about-it”: it would be alright if the medbay was unstaffed for the few minutes it would take Ratchet to get there.

The hallways were empty; _Swerve’s_ was crowded. “Hello, guys!” Riptide called cheerily in passing, loaded down with a tray of dirty glasses as he helped bus tables.

“I hope you’re at least getting minimum wage for that!” Whirl crowed as he ushered First Aid towards a corner of the bar, leaving a confused-looking Riptide in their wake.

They ended up sitting in a booth with Cyclonus. Whirl sat First Aid between them as a buffer, which was nice because Cyclonus’s field was like a bubble of cool stillness amid the cacophony of the bar. He asked about Tailgate, even though he had visited that morning, and First Aid was pleased that Whirl had been keeping close enough tabs on Tailgate that he could answer most of Cyclonus’s questions himself.

First Aid sipped steadily at his drink – Whirl still insisted on ordering for him, but the drinks had gotten lighter and sweeter over time – and let his gaze wander over the crowd. Skids and Trailbreaker had commandeered their usual centre table. Brainstorm was there, hands open and resting palm-up on his thighs as he drank from a straw; Chromedome was conspicuously absent, his space filled by a comely purple mech that First Aid had never seen before. Getaway was perched next to Skids, leaning over his shoulder as both they laughed at something on Skids’s datapad. First Aid observed discreetly, angling his helm to watch the scene out of the side of his visor.

Then Getaway glanced over to where First Aid sat. His gaze cut through the beat of the music, Whirl’s chatter, and even Cyclonus’s seemingly immutable EM field, making First Aid’s spark hiccup in his chest.

He watched as Getaway excused himself from Skids’s company and made his way over to their corner booth, First Aid sinking further in his seat the closer Getaway came. But instead of attempting another uncomfortable round of thanks and awkwardly-worded condolences, Getaway leaned over and whispered something in Whirl’s audial.

Whirl waited until Getaway was finished before craning his neck back like a snake preparing to strike. “Oh, yeah? Sounds like a good time.” Whirl turned to First Aid. “Hey, Digits, I’m gonna head out… you want me to walk you back, or do you feel like staying a bit longer?”

“I…” First Aid looked between Whirl and Getaway, then up at Cyclonus, who’s mouth was now set in in a slightly firmer version of its usual stern line of disapproval. It took just a second for First Aid to realise that he couldn’t yet stomach going back to the emptiness of his office. “I think I’ll stay a bit longer, thanks.”

“Right. You uh, you don’t mind, do you?” Whirl asked. “I’ll make it up to you, you know.”

“I know.” First Aid shook his helm. “Go on, I’ll be fine.”

Whirl looked over at Cyclonus. “Wanna help him home for me?”

The lines on Cyclonus’s face had already lost some of their edge. “If you would like that,” he said to First Aid.

“Yes, thank you.” First Aid gave Whirl’s pincer a gentle pat. “Have fun. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“…For sure.” Whirl followed Getaway out of the bar, something purposeful in the way he stalked through the crowd. First Aid watched them uncertainly until they disappeared out into the hallway.


	9. Disarmed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for being patient, i caught the 'flu and it's just been terrible. i can just now write decent sentences again
> 
> i think i'm switching update days to Saturdays since i tend to do most of my writing the day before posting and my Friday evenings are clearer than my Thursday evenings
> 
> warning for mention of using regular medical needles in this chapter, but no detailed descriptions of their use

In the early hours of the morning, there was a knock on the medbay’s office door.

Even through a comfortable sleep aided by engex and a general desire to be awake as little as possible, the habits of years living on front lines and in unguarded aid stations broke through. First Aid was wide awake and unfolding from his chair before his visitor had a chance to knock again.

The door swished open to reveal Whirl, helm turned to the side in a way that obscured his optic, the rest of his body language unreadable. One pincer was raised to knock; the other was simply missing, the whole arm gone from the pauldron down.

“Whirl…?” First Aid began tentatively, his voice a little raspy with sleep.

“Uh, hey, Digits.” Whirl didn’t sound his usual bouncy, post-brawl self. He sounded tired, with an undercurrent in his tone that First Aid wasn’t ready to give name to.

“Come sit down and tell me what happened.” Whirl wasn’t bleeding; a mystery and a small favour in one. First Aid helped him to a berth. “Where is your arm, so I can reattach it?”

Whirl gave a bitter little snort. “Won’t be getting it back.” He sighed. “Sorry.”

First Aid examined the place where Whirl’s arm came to a stop. Because that’s what it was; the mesh and metal came to a sudden, clean point of severance, the delicate wires and tubing somehow cauterized shut. “Well, I can fabricate you a new one, if you like. We’ve got your specs on file, so it’ll take a day or two. In the meantime, you get an antiviral and something to prevent rust.” He busied himself for a minute by searching through the drawers for what he needed. “You don’t have to tell me what happened, if you don’t want to, unless it’s something that’ll endanger the rest of the crew.”

“ _Hilarious_.” When First Aid turned around quickly to apologise, Whirl waved him silent. “No, I mean…” He deflated a little. “I don’t know. Yes, it’s a danger to the rest of the crew, but it hasn’t _done_ anything yet.” Whirl sounded frustrated. “I picked a fight with Megatron.”

First Aid gasped. “And he did _this_?” That… was not how any superior officer was supposed to deal with the troops beneath them. Then First Aid remembered it was _Megatron_ , and felt suddenly stupid for being surprised. “You should go to Magnus.”

“No, I can’t, because _I_ picked a fight with _him_. I’m the bad guy here,” Whirl corrected irritably. “Besides,” he shifted uncomfortably, and First Aid realised he’d never seen Whirl squirm before, “he, uh, said he didn’t exactly mean to take it off? I punched him, and then my arm just kept _going_ and didn’t come _back_ , because he’s got… portal dimensions in his guts or something. Said Shockwave did it, something to do with this last time he tried to destroy the universe.” Whirl shrugged. “I just got into it with the wrong mech for once. It’s okay.”

“It’s… it’s really not.” First Aid set the tray of swabs and injections on the berth beside Whirl, and tried to collect his thoughts. Yes, the fight had apparently been Whirl’s fault, and supposedly his injury was an accident – and it wasn’t like the crew didn’t get a little roughed up during interpersonal spats all the time – but this was definitely some of the worst damage First Aid had seen one crew member give another since the _Lost Light_ had officially launched. And he was certain that whatever had happened between Whirl and Megatron was more than physical; he’d never seen Whirl so subdued. He felt guilty for his previous stance of not worrying about Megatron unless someone got hurt; _of course_ someone was going to get hurt, it had just been a matter of when, and how many people. “I don’t care if you started it, he should have – he didn’t have to…” First Aid angrily worried the tips of his fingers against the sides of his thighs. “…What if you’d _headbutted_ him instead? Promise me you won’t do something like that again. Please? Just… leave him alone. Don’t give him another excuse to hurt you.”

Whirl tipped his helm a bit, as if he had to think about it; but after a moment he very, very gently knocked the hood of his helm against the side of First Aid’s. “Yeah… yeah, okay, Digits. I won’t do it again, I promise.”

First Aid held his breath until Whirl retreated, as if not to scare him off prematurely. When he did breathe out, it was a sigh. “Thank you, Whirl.” He fiddled with the tray, not sure where to look. “Here, you need these injections before you leave. Hold out your arm.” He finally looked up to see Whirl cheekily waggling the stump of his right arm at him, the gravity from before suddenly gone as if it had never been. First Aid found himself immediately relieved. “ _Whirl_.”

“Just imagine if I’d lost them both,” Whirl speculated, watching First Aid catch his left arm and swab a clean patch on the protometal. “You’d really be stymied then.”

“I’m trying to think of anything _but_ that.” First Aid gave him both the shots and placed a small mesh patch over the injection sites. “Anyway, they’re sub-circuital injections. They can go anywhere, including your stubborn aft-plate.”

“Is that so~” Whirl teased, hopping down off the berth. “I better let you get back to bed, you’re rambling now.”

“Oh, get _out_ ,” First Aid said with amused exasperation. “I’ll call you when your replacement is finished, if I don’t see you before then.”

“Sounds good.” Whirl paused halfway out the door, turning to look over his shoulder. “Hey, thanks, by the way. I mean it.”

First Aid felt like he was holding his breath again. “No problem.”

He waited until the door swished shut to go back to his office.


End file.
